Some Things Never Change
by East-Coast-Invictus
Summary: POST POST AWE: Jack and Hector in the 20th Century with their usual hijinks. Illegal activities and pistol-whipping ensue. T for mature themes. Oneshot.


"You know, when you said _hey, let's hang out, for old times' sake_, this wasn't wot I 'ad in mind."

Hector adjusted his sunglasses as he ducked into the coughing black Trans Am. "Ye think if I told ye straight up, ye'd come?" He peered pointedly at Jack over the dark glasses, simultaneously shoving his bag into the back seat. The other man placed a finger on his chin and looked away in thought.

"You 'ave a point there, mate. Though that you only gave me directions n' no address should've told me then n' there." The door slammed and the car ground forward, dust rolling off it as it pulled away, leaving Hector's attorney arguing with the penitentiary warden in the cloud.

Hector merely grinned his sneak's grin, leaning back in his seat and putting his arms behind his head. The car jumped as it hit third gear, sliding sideways onto the two lane highway towards San Diego. Jack cast a smug glance at his companion. "Funny thing, eh?"

"What's that?" Hector didn't return the look.

"Last we spoke, you said very plainly that there wasn't a hand on this earth that could touch you. The long arm o' the law, included."

"Last we spoke, I seem t' recall havin' ye on the wrong end of a forty-five."

"And we see 'ow well tha' worked, don't we?"

The look Jack received was somewhat short of appreciative. Hector flashed him a rude gesture. "So I put too many of me coins in one basket. That back-stabbin' cur Giles didn't help."

"Sold you out, did he?" Jack sounded amused

"Faster n' ye can spit. The rest o' them slack-jawed goons didn't do a thing, either."

"You'd think they'd be loyal, wot wiv you givin' 'em their lives for free, eh?"

"I know! Just can't get good help these days."

In his vexation, Hector seemed to miss the sarcasm.

Δ

Jack's Trans Am squealed to a stop next to the gas pump. The past thirty years had not been kind to it but to Jack, it was brand new. He had found it on Ebay for 3500 bucks and, still quite attracted to color black, immediately jumped on the find. He considered it _Black Pearl_ #43. The funds to get it up to proper operating conditions were still building.

Hand lingering lovingly on the hood, Jack twisted the gas cap off and set the pump. The cover had long since rusted off. Hector rose out of the passenger seat, stretching with a yawn. Scratching at a still-pink scar on his forearm, he turned a reproachful eye on the vehicle. "Where'd ye dig up this bit o' work? A junkyard?"

Jack shot him a glare of contempt. "You wanna walk t' San Diego? 'Cause I can help you do that, you know."

"Mercy, don't get yer panties in a wad," Hector replied. "T'ain't yer mum or anything." He leaned against the car, resting his arms on the sun-warmed hood.

"Don't start, Barbossa. In spite of the past four hundred years, we both remember quite well how the last transportation feud went. Not to mention the fall-out."

Hector laughed. Cackled, more like it. The sound made a flock of nearby crows take flight. "Speakin' of which, I'm actually a bit all aback that ye even disdained t' answer yer phone."

Jack shrugged, placing the pump back into its slot and digging into his jeans pocket for his wallet. He aimed a falsely charming smile at Hector. "Maybe I just missed your lovely face."

"Or maybe ye just wanted to rub a six year prison sentence in it."

"Hector, how could you? I'd _never _do such a thing."

"Yeah, and my name's Margaret Hamilton." Jack waggled a finger at him as he rounded the aft end of the Trans Am to pay for the gas.

"Don't bash the classics, mate. Margaret Hamilton was acting _gold_."

Δ

When Knuckles Sobieski walked into the boss' office, he caught Morton Giles in a good mood. Automatically, he began sweating. "Come on in, Knuckles! Have a seat, give me the rumpus." Giles gestured to the chair opposite him. Knuckles eyed the sitting apparatus a moment before sitting down carefully. The boss rested his elbows on the desktop, fingers interlaced. His pock-marked face was a mask of geniality, black mustache hiding his top lip but not the smile he wore. "Jesse pay, did he?"

"He did. A little reluctantly, but he did." Knuckles reached into a pocket and set a wad of bills before him. Giles smile grew a little bit broader as he picked up the money.

"A shame. Benny was a helluva bookie."

There was a brief silence as he went through the cash, Knuckles shifting uneasily in his seat. After a moment, the movement caught Giles' eye and he regarded the thug with a keen eye. "Something bothering you, Knuckles?"

Knuckles seemed to shrink in his seat. Giles was no Hector Barbossa but he was next worse thing, having been the man's right hand for several years. The boss picked up on the hesitation quick, genial expression sharpening a little. Knuckles looked down at the floor, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. "Well, boss…" he began in a small voice. Knuckles felt beads of sweat break out on his upper lip. "I was just wondering…"

"Yes?" Giles' tone was suspicious.

"Wha…What if I happened to see …somebody today? Somebody who went to jail."

"Is this somebody somebody we like?"

"…No."

Immediately, Giles went from mildly interested to pure venom. There was only one person he _really _didn't like that had been to prison. And that fellow should _still be there. _Knuckles blanched audibly, unable to act before Giles launched furiously across the desk to seize the lackey by the front of his jacket. The man's face was livid.

"_Where_?!"

Δ

Hector watched Giles' '99 Impala peal out of the alley from a block away. He laughed, slapping the side of the Trans Am happily. "The gent was always a quick one to act." In the driver's seat, Jack leaned down to watch the blue car disappear around a turn. Hector, smiling in a casual manner, kicked the door open and stepped out. He patted the slight bulge on his left side under his blazer. Jack too stepped out, frowning at the abuse to his car. "I really gotta thank you fer this one, Jack," he said, pushing his sunglasses up a little further on his nose.

Jack made sure his own weapon was firmly seated in the waist band of his jeans, half-safety on. "Like to know how t' thank me?"

"I'm all ears."

"Write me a nice check so my steed 'ere can get a nice, new coat of paint n' several other renovations."

"Done. The sick thing needs it." Hector glanced at his watch. "Darla should've unfrozen my accounts by now. She's a boon, that lass."

Looking for all the world like a pair of companions strolling down the street, Jack and Hector made for the gang headquarters. The autumn sun warmed the pavement, leaving the slightest of hazes floating above the sidewalk. The two bantered as they walked.

"Now, why the glasses and suit?"

"I thought you, of all people, would comprehend the meanin' o' image."

"But you look like someone off The Matrix."

"Are ye sayin' The Matrix is bad?"

"No. I'm sayin' ye look like someone from it."

"In a bad way."

"You liked The Matrix?"

"…The concept has merit."

"Okay, yeah."

"I'm bein' serious."

"Oh, I believe you."

"No you don't."

"…Aye, you're right."

"Just stop talkin'."

"Am I botherin' you, Hector?"

"Will ye stop if I say yes?"

"Who do you think you're talking to, mate?"

"Ah, that's right. Yer _always_ a bother."

"Not always."

"And next ye'll be tellin' me ye haven't been stickin' yer fanny in the face o' organized crime."

"Hey, nobody ever said crime was _required_ t' be organized. I like to call it _unprecedented misconduct_. Keeps the bobbies on their toes. You should see my dossier. Won't find any _prison time_ there."

"Don't even start with that…"

Some things never change.

Δ

Morton Giles was angry. Hector Barbossa, his former boss that he sold out to the feds in order to take over their black market organization, was free. Through some legal loophole the man's conniving personal attorney had managed to get an appeal granted and Barbossa had been released from the California State Penitentiary six hours ago.

Giles stormed into the mundane little repair shop they used as a headquarters in downtown San Diego, in his anger not noticing the lack of lackeys present. He'd left Knuckles at the drive-in where the thug had claimed to have seen Barbossa not half an hour ago. He put the key into the lock on his office door, turned it viciously, and kicked it open.

"Well, look who it is. How's business, Morty?"

The mustachioed man froze where he stood.

A well dressed, middle-aged man sat at his desk. The man had his feet propped up, arms behind his head. The man's auburn hair was pulled back in a sloppy tail and a neat five o'clock shadow clung desperately to his chin. And the man's humorless blue eyes watched Giles over the rims of a pair of expensive sunglasses.

Giles immediately feigned friendliness. "Barbossa! You're out of jail!" he declared with a grin but feeling sweat prick his scalp.

Hector gave him a condescending smile that scared Giles more than anything. "Morton, Morton, Morton," he said slowly, his Irish R's rolling. "Seems ye've forgotten just who ye chose t' stab in the back." As Hector spoke, Giles felt something prod him in the back. He whirled to find someone else behind him, a man with a black goatee and dreadlocks who wore an amiable expression that belied the gun in his hand. Hector gestured to the unfamiliar man. "This is John. Don't be unfriendly, Giles. Say hello."

Unfortunately, Giles was too far gone to manage even a wave. Clearing his throat lightly, Hector got to his feet and ambled over, casually adjusting the various signet rings on his fingers. It really was disappointing that Giles was turning into such a pansy. He at least had hoped the man who dared to cross him would show more backbone. Oh well.

"It was a nice try, Morty." He placed a hand on Giles' shoulder and was promptly slapped away. Giles then swung a fist, connected with Hector's rather prominent nose, and escaped before Jack could shoot. Recovering fast, Hector was fast on Giles' heels and Jack right behind him.

The man didn't even make it to the front door.

Several hours later, police found gang leader Morton Giles, bound, gagged, and pistol-whipped, hanging upside down from the ceiling of an abandoned Bob's Repair Shop.

Δ

The black Trans Am ground to a halt at the barren crossroads, the light of the single streetlamp broken across the spotty hood. Jack sent Hector a pointed look. "This is where you get out, mate. And don't forget my check."

"O' course not."

A few seconds later, Jack was handed a barely legible check for 30K through the driver side window. "This better not bounce. Where you 'eaded now, Hector?" he asked, smiling at the five digit number. Hector leaned down to look at him, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into the pocket of his white shirt.

"Well, seems I need to start over again. San Diego could use one less illegal organization, anyway. Maybe I'll start a Fortune-500 company in insurance."

"Always the joker, eh?"

Hector merely grinned, teeth startlingly white in the growing dark. Oh, the wonders of modern dentistry. He extended a hand that Jack shook cordially. "Thanks again, Jack. Be seein' ye."

"The same to you, Hector. Oh, wait. One more thing."

"What's that?"

Jack's free hand reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. Before Hector could react, the muzzle aimed at his right foot and Jack pulled the trigger. His hand was released in a torrent of swearing. "A souvenir. Cheers, mate!" Jack cried happily, dumping the clutch and grinding a few gears before successfully shooting off into the dark. A few shots fired after him, one shattering the back window of the Trans Am but the headrest of his seat saved him from any injury.

No, some things never change.

* * *

AN: This is me throwing out random stuff in order to clean up the backlog that's been gathering dust in my concept department. Or maybe ward is a better term… Either way, had to get this out of my head or I'd never be able to get anything done. Total random oneshot – for some reason, the first five minutes of Blues Brothers 2000 I managed to catch this morning was the inspiration. Call it an _homage_. And I don't own Pirates. But no plagiarizing, you n00bs. I still claim this as personal property.

Songs listened to while writing:

Wolf at the Door – Radiohead

Black Betty – Ram Jam

Rag Doll – Aerosmith

School's Out – Alice Cooper

Summer in the City – Styx

Fake It – Seether

Headstrong – Trapt

Back in Black – AC/DC

Renegade – Styx

Don't Wanna Stop – Ozzy Osbourne

Fat Lip – Sum41


End file.
